Inevitable
by Kate-The-Great-And-Powerful
Summary: The blind boy from Five and the Career girl from Seven. Sometimes the enemy isn't who it appears to be. The story of the 73rd Hunger Games, told from two POVs. STORY UNDER CONSTRUCTION! PLEASE COME BACK LATER, THANK YOU - Kate
1. I Can Promise

**AN: Well, while I'm getting started on a bunch of stories, I need to get this one written :D Welcome to the rewrite of 73, the untold story of the 73rd Hunger Games! You don't have to read 73 first. In fact, I'd rather you not if you haven't already! It's filled with spoilers!**

**So, for the rewrite, I'm doing something entirely different. For those of you who have read 73, I am re-introducing Cacelia, the girl from Seven, and Caelius, the boy from Five, as the new main characters of the story. I thought it would be interesting to write one at the point of view of the enemy.**

**I was originally going to call this story The Enemy, but now, I realize I wrote it for a different purpose. I'm hoping this story will give everyone a chance to see both of these characters in a new light. So, with that, I will end this superlong author's note and start the first chapter of Inevitable!**

**Suzanne Collins owns the Hunger Games.**

Chapter 1

Caelius "Cae" Ellison

I wake to the sound of a mockingjay outside my window. It's whistling a melody, one I haven't heard in a long time. I seldom hear the mockingjays this close to the house. Their nests are usually deeper into the woods, where they're harder to find. I get out of bed and flip the latch on my window. It takes a bit of effort to get it open; it's been stuck for ages. When the pane finally swings out on its hinges, I whistle a tune.

After a moment, I hear it back, like an echo. I try again. This time, instead of repeating the melody, the bird falls silent. I hear a giggle coming from the tree outside my window. Oh.

"Morning, Ally," I say with a slight smile.

"Hey, Cae," says my little sister, still giggling, "You're gonna be late for breakfast."

"I'll be there in a minute," I tell her. I hear a rustling of leaves and a _thump_, followed by light footfalls, telling me Alcyone Ellison has dropped to the ground and run around to the front of the house.

I force the window shut again. Ally's pulled tricks like that for as long as I can remember. It used to be easier for her, but over time I've learned how to tell when she's there. I've been blind since I was six years old; thanks to a disease I've long since forgotten the name of. But I guess, in eleven years, you get used to it. A bit fed up and frustrated with not being able to see, but used to it nevertheless. And it does mean I can focus a lot more on my other senses. It's made me perceptive.

Time to get ready. I've never been too worried about appearance, obviously. I know I have red hair, the same as my entire family. No one can see my eye color through the cataracts, so that doesn't matter anymore. But anything other than that, and being tall enough to have to watch my head on the lowest doorways of our small house, I don't know. Normally, I'd pull a few items out of my closet at random and wear those. If no one objects at breakfast, I must not look ridiculous. But today, apparently, is a special occasion, because someone has set out clothes ahead of time.

Of course. It's Reaping Day. My sixth, and Ally's first.

The reaping is the selection process we have to go through every year in the districts. A boy and a girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen are picked in a lottery. Then they leave for the Capitol. And more often than not, they don't come back.

It's called the Hunger Games, and it started seventy-three years ago. This was immediately after the rebellion, around the time District 13 was destroyed. The rebels were defeated, but there always had to be something else. The Capitol had to find some way to hurt them more, to make them regret rising up. Their punishment? The Hunger Games. Two kids are picked as "tributes" from each district. They're dressed up and paraded around the Capitol, treated just like celebrities. They train for about a week, give themselves a bit of false hope that they might be able to get back home. And the Games haven't begun.

There are the volunteer tributes, of course. Those usually come from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Even though it's illegal to train before the Games, they do it anyway. And who's to stop them? The Capitol loves a good show, and the volunteers just make things more exciting. We call them Career tributes, since we assume training's been their job since birth.

When the tributes are transported to the arena, all hell breaks loose. They fight over the available supplies, killing each other violently. Then, they go their separate ways, trying to hunt or trying to hide. But in reality, the arena is just as deadly as any of the tributes.

The Games can last from a few days to over a month, depending on the arena and tributes of that particular year. But one thing never changes. Only one is allowed to live.

I pull on the clothes, and walk to the main room for breakfast. The "main room" holds a table, four wooden chairs, a Capitol-issued projector to watch/listen to the Games, and a big armchair in the corner that belonged to my grandfather. I've managed to memorize this house pretty well in seventeen years of living here. As long as no one moves the furniture around, I can avoid tripping over something important. Not that we own many valuables to speak of.

I sit down at the table. Father is across from me, flipping through a newspaper. He'd normally be working at the power plant at this time, but the reaping is meant to be a holiday, of sorts. Ally takes the seat next to me as Mother sets something down on the table.

"Are these from the bakery?" asks my sister in disbelief.

"Mm hm," confirms Mother, "I had to put up a fight to get the price down, but here they are." I can assume she's smiling. We each take a roll from the basket.

"Happy Hunger Games," says Father humorlessly. I take a bite out of the roll. It's such an enormous improvement to tessera-grain bread, I consider stuffing the whole thing in my mouth.

"I hope the odds are in our favor," says Ally. She's dead serious.

"Ally, they aren't going to pick you," says Mother, taking her seat at the table, "You've only got one slip of paper in there."

"What about Cae?" asks Ally. She's done the math; she knows I have thirty chances of being chosen for the Games.

"They aren't going to pick me, either," I say. It's meant to be reassuring, but she doesn't respond, so she doesn't buy it.

"We have something to give you, Ally," says Mother, "Since it's your first reaping."

"Really?" asks Ally. I hear no response, so Mother must be nodding. And handing Ally what I know is a woven straw bracelet, adorned with wooden beads.

"Wow," she says softly, "It's beautiful."

"It's a good luck charm," says Father, "To help you in the reaping. It represents the last year you're eligible for the Games. Yours is seventy-nine. Wood for District Seven, straw for District Nine." I hold my own good luck charm out to her. Wood for District Seven, carved to look like a fish for District Four. Next year is my last reaping.

"We'd better get going," I say, finishing the last of my roll and standing up, "We're supposed to be there early." That was directed at Ally. Her footsteps follow me out the front door as our parents say goodbye.

Ally takes my hand as we begin the walk to the town square. I really hate being outside the house. I don't know where anything is out here. If I didn't have Ally with me, I could forget all about getting through the reaping. I'd likely get myself killed before I could even make it to the square. I'm so focused on not tripping on the uneven stone-paved street; I don't hear her question.

"Well, do you?" she asks.

"Huh? Do I what?" I say, coming back to reality.

"Believe in luck," she says.

"Oh," I say, "Um, yes." Well, that's a lie.

"Okay," she says. We walk in silence for a while, Ally probably looking around at the different shops and me trying to avoid bumping into people. If I listen hard enough, I can pick out different voices in the crowd.

"We're here," says Ally, a note of fear in her voice.

"It's not going to be you," I tell her, "You'll be fine. Go stand by Electra. She's there, right?"

"Yeah," says Ally, "She's there."

"I'll see you after the reaping, okay?" I say, "We'll stop by the general store, look at the postcards." This got a small laugh.

"They don't sell postcards at the general store," she says, "No one wants to visit here." I smile at her.

"Huh. That's right, isn't it? Well, we can go into the general store and point out the spot where we think the postcards ought to be. Alright?"

"Alright," says Ally, giving me a hug, "Bye, Cae." She goes off to the twelve-year-old section, and I walk towards the front, where the rest of the seventeen-year-olds are. I stand on the edge of the crowd, not speaking to anyone.

I don't really have friends. It's not their fault. I mean, people have tried talking to me. It's just that I haven't tried listening to them. Maybe I should. I do encounter these people at school every day. On the other hand, in another year I'll be eighteen, out of the reaping and out of school. Then I can get a job somewhere, if they'll take me.

Bruce Autumn, the Capitol representative this year, takes the stage. He taps on the microphone, sending a high-pitched squeaking noise out of the speakers. My age group is so close to the stage, I can hear it _perfectly_. I clap my hands over my ears and grit my teeth. Every year.

Bruce clears his throat, and then begins his speech in his odd Capitol accent. It's kind of comical, the way he speaks. Ally and I love to imitate him. And I've heard his fashion sense is equally ridiculous.

"Welcome, District Five! Thanks so much for joining me today for the reaping of the seventy-third Hunger Games!"

_As if we had a choice_, I think bitterly.

"Now, I invite to the stage your very own mayor for the reading of the Treaty of Treason!" He claps his hands, encouraging us to do the same. The enthusiasm of the crowd is astonishing. Bruce, most likely disappointed by our lackluster applause, ditches the microphone and retreats to the back of the stage, probably to start chatting up one of the victors or something. The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, and my mind wanders.

Why to we need to hear this year after year? Maybe they want to resurface memories from the last Games, keep the terror alive? It's possible they _need_ to, in the week before new tributes are thrown into the arena. Am I thinking like a Capitolite? Possibly. But anyone with half a brain can tell that only certain people are behind it. As for the rest of them, maybe they're brainwashed into thinking the Games are spectacular, or for the greater good. We'll never know.

"Yes, that was excellent!" says Bruce, clapping again, "And now, it's time to pick our tributes!" His voice has been raised to such an extreme; I clench my fists to keep from covering my ears again.

"Why don't we mix it up a little, pick our male tribute first for a change?" No one responds, but Bruce goes to pick the name anyway. There's a brief moment when I don't hear anything from the stage, as he's wandered out of range of the microphone to pick a slip of paper from the boys' reaping ball.

"Caelius Ellison!" I flinch. That was loud. I must not have noticed when he came back to the mic—

It dawns on me. That name is mine. _I_ am Caelius Ellison. And I'm going into the Hunger Games.

All at once, I can't move. My arms are stiff at my sides, my legs refuse to budge, and my face is probably twisted into some expression of horror. I've become a statue. Statues can't breathe. I can't breathe!

"Caelius Ellison?" I register that Bruce Autumn is confused, "Is there a Caelius Ellison out there? Did I mispronounce your name? Is it Cay—"

"He's right here!" yells a voice from right next to me. Someone shoves me forward roughly, and I stumble into the aisle. Maybe I've been more of a jerk than I thought. So much for making friends.

I realize my face will be on every screen in the Capitol by dinnertime, and try to make my expression less pained. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from shaking and start walking towards the stage, taking long strides and trying to seem indifferent.

"Aha!" exclaims Bruce, "There you are! Come on up!"

The stairs come out of nowhere, and I stumble again, nearly landing flat on my face. No one laughs as I right myself and climb up to the stage.

"And now, for our ladies!" says Bruce. His voice becomes muted as my brain works on overdrive, trying to figure out how this could have happened. I have just enough time to worry for Ally's safety before I catch the name of my district partner.

"Anita Powell!" calls Bruce. I don't know who Anita Powell is. But a girl in my class shares her last name, so she must be a sister, or a cousin. Soon, I hear someone next to me, crying. She's one of the younger girls. Or maybe she's just short.

"Shake hands, you two!" says Bruce. I hold out my hand, and Anita takes it hesitantly.

Soon after, we are led into the Justice Building. Anita's sobbing is growing much fainter, so she's been escorted a different way.

The door shuts behind me rather ominously. I try to pull myself together before my family arrives. My hands are still shaking. I'm losing my grip on reality. I'm going into the Hunger Games. The only place where children are able legally kill each other. And the maniacs from the Career districts do it by choice, even though they have a huge chance of dying by the hands of the Capitol, or the other tributes, or even their own allies! That's how badly they want this, the sadistic little—

"Cae!" Ally bursts into the room, jolting me out of my thoughts. She hugs me tightly, and I attempt to look a little less worried. Scratch that, I'm not worried at all. I'm petrified.

"Why did they pick you?" My sister is crying. I hear my parents come in after her. Aside from a muffled weeping from Mother, they stay quiet.

"It's at random," I say, "They don't know who they're going to pick."

"I hate them," says Ally, "How can they do this? What's wrong with them?!"

"I'm going to be fine," I lie to her, "I'll be back home before you even miss me."

"I miss you already," she tells me. I try not to wince. This makes my impending death seem even more certain.

"I'm going to miss you too," I say, "But I'll come home."

"Can you promise?" I hesitate.

"Yeah, I can promise," I say. Lies, lies, lies. I should get my untruthfulness under control.

"You'll keep the charm, right? For good luck?" she asks. I nod, taking the little wooden fish from my pocket to show her I still have it with me. There's no such thing as luck.

"Cae," says Father, putting a hand on my shoulder, "You know your hearing is going to be better than the others'. It'll help you in the arena."

"I'll keep it in mind," I say, a trace of acid in my voice. Sure, I can use my hearing in the Games. But what good will my hearing be when I'm matched against an armed Career?

"Listen," he says, "You come up with a strategy, and your hearing will be the most valuable weapon in the arena." I open my mouth to object, but instead I nod.

"Time's up," says a low voice coming from the door. A Peacekeeper, presumably.

"No!" Ally exclaims, hugging me. Mother and Father join her, and this is how we remain for the ten seconds before the Peacekeeper enters the room.

I'm alone again. No surprise there. I sit back, trying not to think about what my family might be doing now. Until I hear the door open again.

"Who is it?"

"Mel Powell. From school," is the girl's reply. She's been crying recently; I can tell from her voice.

"Hello," I say.

"Your district partner's my sister," she says accusingly, like it's my fault Anita is going into the Hunger Games.

"I figured." There's a long pause. I can almost feel her glaring at me, debating whether I'm worth her time. I hear a sigh.

"I need your help," she says.

"With what?"

"Anita's going into the Games," she says, still sounding annoyed with me, "We need you to protect our sister."

"We?"

"Yeah," says another voice. It belongs to an even younger girl, probably five or six years old. I remain impassive. A change of heart would do me no good now. I have my own sister to think about.

"Maybe I want to make it out alive," I say.

"Be realistic," says Mel coldly, and I flinch. Those words stung.

I expect she's only upset about her sister. She has a right to be. I probably wouldn't be doing much better had my own sister been picked. So really, Mel is coping quite well.

Still, I can't help but think, somewhere in the back of my mind, that she's right. Why should I give Ally false hope when I have no chance of winning the Games? I think Mel may have read my expression, because she has another sentimental streak.

"Just, please look out for her when you can," she says. Then she's gone.

Even with the lies I tell to reassure my family, I don't lie to comfort myself. It's very likely I'll end up a bloodbath tribute. But the fact that Mel came to tell me this, to ask this of me, shows that at least _she_ assumes I'll survive long enough look out for her sister. And that alone gives me a chance.

I wonder what she'd say to me if I were the one who came back alive.


	2. Just A Game

Chapter 2

Cacelia Hyasin

_"You'll never make it!" the girl shrieks. Even under my knife, she's laughing like a maniac._

Don't use your weapon. Don't do it. You know what'll happen when you kill her_, says a voice in my head. And I do know, because I've had this dream before. As soon as I bring down my knife, the real torture will begin._

_Despite knowing this, I can't bear to look at her alive. The superiority practically gleams in her eyes as she laughs. She's taunting me, and I can't take it. No torture could possibly be worse than this._

_It's over in a second. The knife buries itself deep into the girl's neck, and the light fades from her eyes. Just as I anticipated, pain explodes across my body. As if every bone is shattered, every muscle torn, every inch of skin in shreds. Worse agony than any knife, any sword could cause._

_And I brought it upon myself._

* * *

When my eyes snap open, I'm in an unfamiliar place. I sit bolt upright in bed. The pain is gone, save for a tingling sensation in my fingertips. But even that dies away as my head clears. My breathing slows down, and the nightmare fades into the back of my mind, where—hopefully—it'll stay quiet for a while.

I've slept in. Light pours into the room through a large glass window. I can see the edge of a vast pine forest through the translucent white curtains.

Once the confusion of sleep is banished from my mind, I register that I'm in my old bedroom. And I remember. The train ride to District 7, the slightly unpleasant reunion with my family, going to bed in my old room for the first time in a year. And that was a week ago. So what of today?

Today is the reaping, my very last one. And I intend on going into the Hunger Games.

Believe it or not, I have trained for the Games since age nine. I showed promise as a fighter, and my parents, being much better off than most people in District 7, had enough money to send me to District 2 for the better part of the year. Their Training Center is live-in, 2 being the dedicated district it is. Travel between districts is all but forbidden nowadays. Unless, of course, you have permission from the government, or can offer the proper sum. I come back here for the reaping every year, though, which I don't mind so much. There's no competition at the reapings here. No one in their right mind would volunteer without training, unless they had a death wish.

The dresses in my closet all may have fit when I was nine, but they won't do me any good today. I take a slightly crumpled gray dress out of my bag and change into it. Smoothing out the skirt, I glance in the mirror to make sure I look presentable. Not quite. I run a brush through my hair and put on a pair of flats. I'm taking my time, in no way motivated to get to breakfast.

Soon enough, though, I finally give in to my growling stomach and walk down the hall to the kitchen. My sister, Sylvia, sits at the table, dressed to the nines. She looks remarkably similar to me, though she's a year older. She has the same straight black hair, the same narrow, dark-colored eyes as I do.

"Cacelia," she acknowledges me, as if I wasn't going off to the Capitol today to compete in a fight to the death. Well, we were never close. It being nine years since I lived at home, I'm surprised she hasn't forgotten my existence by now.

I nod, and Sylvia goes back to her breakfast. Where my parents are, I have no idea. But I'm glad they aren't here. It's hard enough for me to stick around without them all playing perfect family.

I'm almost certain they enjoy my absence. I'm not around to cause them trouble anymore. I used to get into fights with my classmates. It was earning the Hyasins a bad name, as my parents had put it. Yes, I still remember. I was easily provoked and had no respect for authority. Not much has changed. It makes sense that I had a hard time when I first started training in 2. They practically live for discipline.

"I'm going to the square," I say. Sylvia looks at me strangely.

"But you have an hour, the reaping doesn't start until—"

"Two," I say, "I know. I'm getting an early start." Sylvia doesn't respond, so I walk out the door.

Nearly no one's outside yet, so I decide I have time to take the long way to the square, through the woods. I'd never thought about it much before, but I have to admit, District 7's dense forests really are beautiful. Not enough so that I miss them when I'm away, but enough so that I enjoy my walk to the square. Better yet, I'm all alone.

I'm good at avoiding people. It comes with years of practice. I have one good friend—my former roommate at the Training Center—a girl my age named Pax. She moved out this year to start her Peacekeeper training. I try not to speak with anyone else in my age group. I can't have any more District Two friends, not if I might have to kill them. Too many people set me off, anyway.

I don't realize how much time has passed until I get back to the street, and find it filled with people. Huh. I must have lost track of time. I start walking down the sidewalk and notice a few people turning to look at me. Do they remember me from last year? From back when I lived here year-round, even? That was almost a decade ago. I return their stares with a scowl, and most of them turn away again.

After signing in, I walk to the eighteen-year-old section and stand by a group of girls my age. They're chatting amongst themselves, looking almost carefree. They should be, since they'll all be safe from the reaping this year. The District 7 escort, Delphi Sharpe, walks up to the stage, perfectly balanced despite her ten-inch heels. They look more like weapons than shoes, but maybe that was the idea. I wouldn't put it past a Capitolite to design dangerous—albeit glamorous—shoes.

"Welcome, everyone!" exclaims Delphi, casually brushing aside a lock of her pale blue hair. I'm surprised she doesn't slash her face open with those fingernails.

"Is everyone excited for District Seven's reaping? We'll finally get to know who our tributes are for the seventy-third Hunger Games!" she says, clapping her hands. As usual, no one feels as excited as she does.

_Except me_, I think, grinning. I've waited nine years for this day. A girl standing nearby casts an incredulous glance in my direction, but I do my best to ignore her. She must have been in my class, all those years ago. I can't say I remember her, though. I turn away so I don't have to see her shaking her head. She should be grateful I'm here.

"Now, let's start with the ladies!" says Delphi. Now, all eyes are on our garishly dressed escort. She takes a piece of paper between her long fuchsia nails and withdraws it from the girls' reaping ball.

"Phoebe Weiss!" The girl to my left—the very one who gave me that dirty look—turns to me immediately, as if prompting me to volunteer for her. And I almost do. But another idea appeals to me more.

I give Phoebe a shrug and step back, clearing a path into the walkway. It's that simple. Phoebe's eyes grow wide. Her features contort with anger, then terror. Visibly shaking, she makes her way out into the aisle.

"Hello, Phoebe! Now, is there anyone willing to volunteer and take her place?" I've probably tortured her for long enough. Besides, I wouldn't want to miss my own chance. Now seems like a good time to step forward.

"I volunteer!" I yell, freeing myself from the crowd of eighteen-year-olds and coming to a halt in the middle of the aisle. Delphi looks pleasantly surprised.

"Oh!" she says after a pause, "It looks like we have a volunteer!" I deliberately elbow Phoebe out of my way before I climb the steps to stand next to Delphi. Between the escort's super-high heels and the fact that I'm only a few inches over five feet tall, she towers over me.

"And what's your name?" she asks. I look up at her.

"Cacelia Hyasin."

"Ah. Well, that's excellent! Let's give her a hand, everyone!" exclaims Delphi. A few people clap for me. Most just give me the same wary look.

_What's the matter with you? Why would you do this?_

I stare out into the crowd and find Sylvia standing just outside the square. I'm not sure what I expected from her, but her expression is no different from the others.

"And now, to pick the lucky boy who will accompany our volunteer!" says Delphi, clapping again. She leans over and picks a name out of the boys' reaping ball.

"Leonardo Sanford!" she says. A dark-haired boy who looks absolutely petrified starts to shuffle forward from the fourteen-year-old section.

"Don't be shy!" says Delphi as Leonardo comes up to the stage. Great. He's taller than me, too.

I shake his hand. I can't help but notice how careful he is to avoid making eye contact. He barely acknowledges me. For some reason, this really rubs me the wrong way. Good thing I don't have much time to think about it. A moment later, we're escorted into the Justice Building by two Peacekeepers. And they make sure to lock the door behind us.

It's a nice room. I have to admit, I was expecting more of a cramped, second-rate space for the tributes to say their last goodbyes. Of course, these won't be _my_ last goodbyes. I plan on coming back.

It occurs to me that I'll have to live in 7 year-round again if I win. It's a shame; I really enjoyed living in District 2. Maybe they'll let me visit sometime. After all, Panem's victors are celebrities.

"Hi, Cacelia," says my mother, walking into the room. My father and Sylvia follow her in.

"Good morning," I greet them.

"Good luck," says my mother.

"Thanks." No one says much after that. My family barely sees me anymore; they're only here because it's expected of them. And they're very good at doing what's expected of them.

My parents rise from their chairs the moment the Peacekeeper opens the door. They don't look tearful as they say their goodbyes. It could be because they're confident I'll come back. Or maybe they just aren't sorry to see me go. I can't help but wonder what Leonardo's family is feeling as they wish their son luck. It's a Game he can't win, honestly.

Sylvia stays behind after my parents leave the room. I prop my feet up on the coffee table.

"What is it?" I ask her, "Want me to put in a good word for you on The Flickerman Show?" I laugh, but she doesn't join in. I didn't expect her to.

"You treat this like it's a game, Cacelia." She's annoyed with me. Why?

"That's all it is," I tell her, folding my arms, "It's all just a game." That wasn't the whole truth. It's not just a game. It's _the_ Game. And it's a game I'm willing to play.

"You're eighteen. You're throwing your life away," my sister insists.

"Not if I win," I say, bored with the dispute. I'm already a tribute, so this argument is senseless.

"Never mind." Sylvia's fists are clenched. "Just come home, all right?"

I don't respond. In all honesty, District 7 is not my home. I was never welcome here. But I do have to come back. I have no choice.

Sylvia leaves without another word. I'm not surprised. However, I am taken aback when the door opens again. It's a girl about my age, with fair hair, blue eyes, and freckles. I remember her very well.

"Etta?" I ask her. She nods.

"Yeah," she says. There's a brief silence, as neither of us knows quite what to say. I'm still a little shocked. I'd have sooner expected Phoebe Weiss to come through that door.

"You can sit down. I'm not going to bite," I tell her. She takes a seat hesitantly in the chair across from me, like she doesn't quite believe I won't hurt her.

"I haven't seen you in a while," I say. It's true. I don't think I've seen her once since her older brother died in the Games. She and I were nine, and he was thirteen. I left for my first year in District 2 a few weeks later, wondering why he went down in the bloodbath. Etta and I had looked up to him. I didn't understand why he'd let himself be killed so soon.

Training, watching replay after replay of the Hunger Games, had snapped things into perspective. He was a thirteen year old; just a kid. You don't make it out at that age unless you're something special.

"Yeah," says Etta, "I just wanted to wish you luck." This is out of character. I vaguely remember her telling me she never wanted to see me again, all those years ago. I think it was something I said. But maybe she's decided to leave that in the past.

"Thanks," I tell her, "I appreciate it."

"Will you take this?" She unfastens the clasp on a bracelet she's wearing and holds it out to me. "You know, if you don't already have a token…"

"I don't." I wonder why she's doing this. She hands me the bracelet. It's a simple piece, adorned with a few carved wooden beads. One of them is painted gold.

"It's nice," I say. And after a pause, "Thank you."

"Be careful," she tells me. I nod.

"Yeah, I will. See you soon."

"See you," she says. But again, it sounds like she doesn't believe it. I'm confused. I've been training for nine years. Sure, that isn't as long as your average Career district tribute, but it's long enough to be good. Tributes with no training at all have won the Games.

So why can't I?


	3. Be Prepared

**AN: And we're back to Cae! Thanks everyone for the lovely reviews, I really appreciate them!**

Chapter 3

Caelius Ellison

I listen for the Peacekeeper's heavy footfalls and mimic his steps. It's a fairly easy way to avoid knocking into things; learn someone else's path and follow it. Not that I'd be punished for breaking something here when I'll be in the arena next week. Unless the Games aren't punishment enough.

Anita and I are unceremoniously reunited, and then led from the Justice Building to some sort of vehicle. A car, I realize when the engine ignites. I tune out our escort's incessant chattering and give thought to my expectations of the Capitol. I mean, seventeen years of wondering what it would be like to ride in a car, and the experience itself is unremarkable. I wonder if, considering this unimpressive car ride, I will be disappointed by the claimed "luxury of the Capitol". Bruce drops this phrase often in his current one-sided conversation.

The car ride ends roughly fifteen minutes later. I know because, to distract myself from the matter at hand, I counted every second of it. Bruce still hasn't tired of his soliloquy, though I'm almost certain no one is listening to him. As we leave the car and enter the train station, his voice starts to fade into a thick haze of other sounds. The likely cavernous space is full of loud footsteps, echoing shouts, and clicking cameras. In short, have absolutely no idea where I'm going. I strain my ears and try to listen for any familiar voice—even Bruce's—but every recognizable sound has blended into the chaos.

Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, and I automatically lash out.

"Stop that!" hisses a voice I've never heard before, loud enough for me to perceive above the din. "I'm trying to help you!" Whoever it is grabs hold of my wrist and all but drags me to a raised platform.

"Stand here. Smile for the camera. You'll get on the train in a minute." The voice disappears, though its owner could still be right beside me. It doesn't matter, because smiling is out of the question. I've sat through enough Hunger Games' to learn a dozen better ways to earn sponsors than pretending I'm glad to be here.

_Keep your face relaxed; don't smile or frown. Concentrate on the ground under your feet. Don't sway. Stay put. Your hands are shaking again; put them in your pockets. Now turn in a certain direction. Pretend you're looking at one of their cameras._

After a while of this, we're allowed to get on the train. Finally. The doors come together behind us with a heavy _thud_, and the quiet settles again. After the prolonged ordeal in the station, silence is absolute bliss. Until the train lurches, of course. Then I stumble over my own worn-out dress shoes. That wipes the smile off my face pretty quickly.

"Don't worry," a voice, the same one from outside, assures me. "The rest of the ride is smooth. You won't feel a thing." I feel like I can believe what she says. This is a Capitol train, after all.

I decide to find a chair anyway, in case she was sugarcoating it.

"I'm Delilah," she introduces herself, probably addressing my district partner as well, "This is Atticus."

I probably should've guessed. Why wouldn't I expect to have Delilah Carey and Atticus Myles as our mentors? They're the only two victors in District Five who aren't perpetually drunk, drugged, or already dead. Both of them won before I was born, and they've mentored nearly every year since. We're lucky to have them, really. What would we have done with Isaac? Or Ethylene? Needless to say, either of the unstable victors could easily choose to spend the entire week in an alcohol-induced oblivion. From what I've heard, Atticus and Delilah are more…in control, than the others.

"I'm Anita," says my district partner. She has a quiet way of speaking; almost a murmur.

"Cae," I say, finally locating a chair and sitting down in it. There's a brief pause. I use the moment to check my pockets. My "good luck" charm is still there. Good. I'd like to have a token.

"Can you see, Cae?" asks Delilah. Observant. She is a victor, after all. She's not alive because she's lucky.

"No." It's not as if I had a chance of making it to the arena without having attention called to my lack of vision. But maybe if I seem bored enough with the conversation, she won't press me for details.

"Huh," says Delilah. I wish I knew what she was thinking. It would be so much easier if I could see her expression. I hear another door open across the room.

"Ah, this is one of my favorite parts!" declares our escort as he comes to join us. "Isn't it great to get your first taste of the Capitol?" Bruce has a wide grin plastered on his face. Probably.

"Yes, very exciting." Delilah says flatly, disregarding his enthusiasm. Atticus must not be much of a talker, because I haven't heard him say a word since we boarded the train.

"The seventy-third annual Hunger Games… It has a ring to it, almost. Only two more years until the next Quarter Quell!" Bruce chuckles. I tighten my grip on the side of my chair.

"Do you think the recap is playing?" asks Delilah.

"Probably," answers a new voice. Atticus. I hear him get up from his chair. Suddenly, the deep voice of Claudius Templesmith fills the train car. I recognize the beginning of an upbeat commentary of the reapings. We're just in time for District 1. Delilah gives me brief descriptions of the tributes, which I appreciate. All I have to do now is remember them. Couldn't be any harder than memorizing my house, could it? Not that I'll ever need to know all their names.

A little background information could be useful, though. And I'd like to be prepared.

**Next chapter: Cacelia meets her mentor and watches the reapings recap!**


	4. Paying Attention

**Hope everyone likes this chapter! I'm so excited to get to training!**

Chapter 4

Cacelia Hyasin

I think my mentors hate me. And I'm not surprised. Tributes like me try to kill tributes like them. I sit across from Johanna Mason at the table now. For once, someone is nearly as short as I am. Unless she's slouching. She glares at me, and I glare right back, neither of us wanting to be the first to speak. As it turns out, we don't need to break the silence. Lucan, the other mentor, does it for us.

"I'll take the kid," he says bluntly, "Come on, Leonardo."

Lucan Raney won the 53rd Hunger Games, after his little sister died in the arena the year before. Figures he'd want to help the younger tribute win and leave me here with Johanna. He gets up from the table and exits the room, taking my district partner with him.

Johanna, District 7's most recent victor, won just two years ago. She's my age now, and can probably wield an axe almost as well as I can. Her parents must have worked in the forest. Whereas mine own the most successful wood furnishing company in Panem. But that doesn't help in the Games at all, unless I wanted to choke someone to death with a silver spoon.

Johanna won her Games by tricking the Careers, pretending to be a weak, whiny, bloodbath tribute. And they completely overlooked her. It was a smart strategy, I have to admit. But it's a strategy I'm not going to use, so how is she going to help me with only one year of mentor experience? Plus, her tributes last year _died_.

I'll bet Johanna never intended on having to mentor a Career tribute. She'll have no idea what to do with me. She doesn't know how to get a middle district tribute into the Career alliance. In fact, I'm nearly positive she doesn't want me to win.

As soon as the door closes, she turns to face me again.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"What?"

"This was your last year!" Apparently Johanna doesn't get out of the Victor's Village much, because most people in the district know exactly who I am.

"I know."

"Then why would you want to get yourself killed?"

"I'm not going to get myself killed," I say, "I'll win. I've been training in Two." Johanna looks at me incredulously.

"No one in their right mind would go to Two just to train."

"I did." Johanna raises an eyebrow.

"A volunteer from District Seven in her right mind?" she says, her voice layered with sarcasm. I scowl.

"Could you give me some advice, at least?"

"Where's your head? You're going to die." I clench my fists.

"You know I have a better chance at winning this than Leonardo."

"I don't expect _either_ tribute to come home, just like last year." She glares at me, and I know I won't get any help from my mentor.

A while later—a while I spend looking out the window and trying to plan a strategy for myself—Lucan and Leonardo come back in.

"Reaping recap should be on now," says Lucan without turning to look at us. I go to sit on the couch as Lucan turns on the television. Just in time to get a first glimpse of my competition.

The tributes from District 1 both seem like decent fighters. The girl has to practically knock down another hopeful to beat her in the race to the stage. Though the boy looks a bit green as he walks to the front.

In District 2, the male tribute is Shadow Corelli. I almost laugh. He really thinks he's ready. I knew he wanted to volunteer this year, but he's only sixteen years old. I didn't think he could make it through the tribute trials. They're the fights the District 2 Training Center sets up each year, to choose the kids who will go into the Games. I'm actually pretty glad they didn't choose a boy in my age group to volunteer. I wouldn't want to have to murder someone I know well.

The girl from 2 comes as a shock. A petite fifteen-year-old, who I know for a fact has never trained a day in her life, is reaped. And no one volunteers.

This is District 2. And _not one person_ is stepping up. What in Panem did this girl do? Did I miss something in the week after I left? Something that would make her so despised that no one in a crowd of potential Careers would volunteer to take her place? Well, it doesn't matter to me now. She'll be a bloodbath, easy.

After two average-looking tributes from 3 and a promising pair of volunteers from 4, I start to get bored. I know I should be paying attention, so I tear my eyes away from the train's elaborate decorations and turn back to the screen. The boy from District 5 trips on the stairs on his way to the stage, and the little girl from his district is sobbing. In my head, I start a list of how many bloodbaths we'll have this year. In 6, the girl seems like she's about to puke, and the boy is fidgeting nervously. And then, there I am in District 7, racing into the aisle to volunteer like I'm afraid someone's going to beat me to it.

In 8, two little kids duck under the rope separating them from the kids who are actually eligible for the reaping, and cling to the male tribute before they're torn away by Peacekeepers. And then, two thirteen-year-olds from District 10. That's enough paying attention. I don't even bother to watch the rest. With this lot up against me, winning the Games might just be easier than I thought.

**For those of you who have read my first fanfiction or know the characters, I did change it around a little. This is a rewrite, so I'm going to fix it so it's a little more realistic than before :) Tell me if I'm doing okay?**

**Another thing: We have our overly negative Caelius and our overly positive Cacelia. Which one do you think can win the Games? (If you're on the forum or already know somehow, don't give it away! XD)**


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